But the girl remained standing in front of them, smiling at them in a kind, friendly way, and they each took a handful from her basket, as though wishing to taste her cherries before deciding whether to buy. The girl said something that sounded rather kind and went on her way. The boys were a little ashamed of their daring, and Robert regretted that he hadn’t at least said “Thank you.” That much he knew in English.
The juicy cherries were a treat to their dry mouths, and they ate them eagerly and spit the stones about them. A fat woman offered big loaves of wheat bread for sale. The loaves had been made in the form of rings, and she carried them hanging around her arms; the boys thought this quite ingenious: to use one’s arms for bread poles. The smell of the fresh bread aroused their appetites—they felt hungry.
A black-haired, ragged little man, carrying a hand organ on his back and holding a monkey on a leash, stopped them with a stream of words. But they understood not a single syllable issuing from his mouth. Neither one of them had ever seen a monkey before. The creature went on two legs like themselves, and it had a hairless behind, red and swollen like an open wound. Arvid, in great disbelief, stared the monkey in the face and said with great emotion: The creature looked impudent—it was inexcusable of an animal to resemble a human being so closely.
A cart loaded with fruit turned over in the gutter with much noise and commotion. Large, yellow, and bigger than apples, the fruit rolled into the horse and swine spillings of the street and was allowed to remain there. The driver turned his vehicle back on its wheels and drove on, his cart empty. None of the walkers paid any attention to the accident, none made the slightest move to pick up the fruit. Only Arvid and Robert remained standing there a few minutes, but they were afraid to gather any of the beautiful unknown fruit.
The sight of so many edibles increased their hunger. But they had no money, they must wait to eat from their own food baskets—Robert would have to eat with Karl Oskar’s family, Arvid with Danjel Andreasson’s.
The boys would not admit to each other that their stomachs were calling loudly for food, nor would they disclose their astonishment during this walk. They had never imagined that all these things existed in the world, these tall houses, these shops with inscriptions over their entrances in glittering letters, all these valuable things that were hung or spread in the store windows: glittering jewelry, gold, silver, precious stones, watches, rings, chains of gold and silver; expensive materials, cloth of gold and of silver, linen, wool, silk, velvet in quantities that could have covered this whole, long street; the expensive, gilded carriages, the light-footed, agile horses in glittering harnesses; all the things with names and uses they did not know, which they could only look at, admire, and guess about.
Before they recovered from one surprise, another even more amazing met their eyes. Two tall men in striped green and white coats and trousers, each carrying an upright pole with a placard on its upper end: See the Anaconda! See the Serpent Charmer! See the Great Boa Constrictor! Five Cents! The men stopped at the corner, calling loudly, and Robert tried to interpret their message. From his book he recognized the word boa constrictor. And in an open place near by he espied a reddish tent with the same inscription; then he understood what it meant and explained to Arvid: Over there in the tent one could see the boa constrictor, the most dangerous snake in the world, it might be as long as forty feet; it cost only five cents to go in and see. . . .
The boa constrictor? ruminated Arvid. Hadn’t Robert once read to him from his History of Nature about this peculiar crawling reptile? He seemed to remember: “. . . the boa constrictor can be dangerous because of its great size and strength; it has happened that it has crushed and swallowed people; it grows to be almost forty feet long. . . .”
“If only we each had five cents!”
It hurt Robert that they must miss this opportunity to look at the world’s greatest snake; a snake forty feet long that swallowed people, to be seen for only five cents. . . .
“Is the beast bound?” asked Arvid.
He looked toward the tent where a crowd of people thronged; he was not as anxious as his comrade to see the man-eating snake. From the very beginning, he had been worried about American reptiles; in his nightmares, America had been filled with hungry, hissing snakes, a veritable snake nest. He now wondered if it could be healthy to look at a snake that big. For himself, a snake five, six feet long would satisfy him, he wasn’t so interested in snakes. Perhaps they could see part of the snake, maybe its tail; that might be cheaper.
Robert said it didn’t matter, since they had not even one cent. He suddenly felt depressed and disappointed. All day long he had seen beautiful things for sale, and it had bothered him that he was unable to buy anything; now he actually suffered from having to leave the tent with the large snake.
Truly, on this, the most beautiful street in the world, there was everything one might strive for in this world, all one’s heart might desire was here. And Robert felt that the street would have been still more beautiful had he a purse full of American money.
But the very thing he lacked, he had come here to earn; he had come to America to be free—but in order to be free, he must first become rich.
—4—
The humming in Robert’s left ear suddenly began again, so intensely that it drowned all the street sounds. It was an echo from that box on the ear received at home in Sweden many years ago; it was a reminder of the servant law—”suitable chastisement.” This his master had given him for laziness in service. The windy weather at sea had worsened his ear injury, and again a yellow, malodorous fluid ran from it. The humming sound, which sometimes increased to a roar, was constantly and depressingly with him. It had followed him from Sweden to North America, he could not lose it. Something was hurt inside the ear.
The hum carried with it a memory from his farm-hand service, a memory which troubled him day and night, year after year. Because of this memory he did not wish to serve as farm hand ever again; he did not wish ever to have a master; he wanted to be free.
He had tried to reconcile himself to the throbbing, had tried to make friends with the sound; it was a voice in there, wishing him well, comforting him when something went wrong, warning him when danger lurked. He had noticed that the hum began when something was happening to him, or about to happen; perhaps his friend in the left ear now wanted to comfort him because he had been unable to see the forty-foot, man-eating snake. . . .
Suddenly the sound was drowned by a loud outcry from Arvid: “Look, Robert! Look over there!”
“What is it?”
“A corpse! Look!”
“What?”
“Can’t you see—there’s a man lying there dead!”
They crossed the street and saw a man lying stretched in the gutter on his back; he was half naked, dressed only in a pair of worn-out pants which hardly covered his legs. His upper body was black with dirt or paint, but the skin of his face was white; he was not a Negro. His eyes were closed and his mouth open, disclosing toothless gums.
Arvid bent down over the body, bustling and excited: “He’s dead! The man is dead! Stone dead!”
Robert, too, looked closer. The man’s chest did not heave, his mouth did not move, he did not seem to breathe. With his foot he lightly touched the foot of the man; he did not move. “I believe he is dead.”
Here a corpse was lying in the street, and people went by without noticing. Living people passed by the dead man, stepped over his outstretched legs, but no one paid any attention, no one noticed he was dead. It was extraordinary. Robert thought this must be because of the great size of the population: there were so many living people jostling each other here in America that no one could pay attention to the dead ones, who were so silent and so still. He and Arvid noticed the body because they were new in the country and not accustomed to seeing corpses lying about.
They looked at each other in consternation: What should they do? Perhaps they should report their discovery, but how? They probab
ly ought to call the police, but they did not know where the police were, and they could not talk, could not ask. Robert remembered there was a sentence in his language book to be used when calling the police. But that was in case of attack on the street. . . . And he couldn’t remember the sentence, anyway, either in Swedish or English. And the police might wonder about them, perhaps even suspect them of having murdered the man lying there in the gutter. It seemed he had only lately died, the corpse was still warm, and it didn’t smell as might be expected in this heat. Perhaps the man had been murdered. Yes, Robert was sure they would be suspected. And they couldn’t say a word, couldn’t deny it, couldn’t defend themselves. No doubt they would be put in prison for murder. It would be best to forget about calling the police. They might stop a passer-by and point to the corpse, and then let him fetch the police. But in that case they might be held as witnesses. It would be best just to walk on and let the dead one lie there.
“We’ll pretend we haven’t seen anything,” advised Robert. “Come, let’s go!”
But Arvid remained leaning over the man. He had made a new discovery: “He smells of brännvin!”
He poked the man carefully between his naked ribs: “Yes, I believe he is—”
Next moment Arvid jumped backward with an outcry: the man had suddenly risen from the ground like a Jack-in-the-box. In front of them stood a heavy-set giant, a living man, swiftly resurrected and roaring furiously.
At this threatening apparition Robert crouched in fright, and Arvid, in his backward jump, almost landed on top of him. They grasped each other’s hands.
Arvid never had time to finish his sentence that he thought the man was alive. Nor did he need to: they could see it—they heard it; they saw and heard a furious, insulted giant standing on his feet, though a little shaky. He took a few steps toward them, and from his enormous, red throat flowed a stream of words which the boys did not think were of a friendly kind. A few words Robert thought he understood: Damned—thieves—bastards. Never in their lives had they heard such terrifying sounds come from a human throat.
The passers-by stopped in the street, people began to gather around them, attracted by the resurrected one’s roaring. The boys held each other’s hands as they backed away. The man so suddenly sprung from the ground spurted spit and fury, he bent forward as though ready to spring at them; something gleamed in his right hand, it flashed in the sun.
Arvid cried out at the top of his voice: “A knife! He’ll stab us—Run, run!’’
The boys took to their heels and ran. They ran into the middle of the street, still gripping each other’s hands, down the street the same way they had come; they ran until they lost their breath and felt a burning in their lungs; they ran past riders and wagons, carts and carriages, horses and asses, they slid between animals and vehicles, they ran for their lives—to get away from the man who sprang at them with a flashing knife in his hand, from the dead man who had come back to life. They had no trouble finding their way, they knew it—all the way down the broad street, the whole length of Broadway, until it ended, then a turn to the left where they would see the harbor and the ships.
During their race they josded people, and angry voices were heard from the crowd. At last Robert held Arvid back: they must slow their pace and be more careful or people would become suspicious of them.
As they reached the market place they stopped for a moment and looked back, puffing and breathless. No one was following them, they were saved. And they resumed their leisurely walk, protected and hidden by the crowd.
“He was a dangerous man,” said Arvid, still shaking. “He might have killed us!”
In a flash Robert could see himself and Arvid lying there stretched out in the street, knife slashes through their throats, like pigs at slaughter time, their blood gushing like ale through a bunghole; their legs kicking a last, weak kick, a helpless kick against death; a feeble twitch of their limbs—then death overpowering them. And there they would be lying, dead in the street, people walking by, no one noticing or taking care of their corpses, nor shrouding them, nor burying them, nor grieving over them here in a foreign country. And when they began to rot and smell, they would at last become food for the swine in the street. So it might have happened.
Robert had seen something glitter in the man’s hand but now, as he recovered his breath, he thought it might not have been a knife; it looked more like glass, perhaps a small bottle. But Arvid insisted he had seen the gruesome man pull out a slaughter knife, a real sticking knife with a point as sharp as an awl.
Robert was still trembling a little, and now he felt ashamed of it and wondered if they hadn’t run simply because of their own fear. He told Arvid they must agree never to let fear overtake them here in America.
“Silly to run away! If the man had touched us, we could have reported him to the police.”
He had just remembered from his English instruction book how to call the police in case of robbers and murderers on the street: Please listen to me, Mr. Policeman! I appeal for your protection against this unfriendly person who is annoying me. This was a long sentence, requiring much time to say. . . . He thought one would have to be very quick if one were to finish the whole sentence before being murdered. He realized he must learn English as soon as possible; he must know the language in order to save his life in case of sudden attack, if for no other reason. He had forgotten, earlier, that he had something of value he might lose; now he remembered: his own life!
But what had happened was really Arvid’s fault: “I told you to let the man alone!”
“I thought he was dead from drinking. He stank of brännvin.”
“But why did you poke him in the ribs?”
“I like the smell of brännvin, and I thought a corpse couldn’t be dangerous.”
Robert lectured him. He had been foolish and curious, and as a result almost got them killed. Finally Arvid agreed that he had been careless; but he had felt happy and reckless today, walking along this broad, beautiful street. Now he became dejected and sad; he promised on oath, using God’s holy name, that it would never happen again. If he found droves of corpses here in America, if people lay dead in piles on every street and road, he would never bother to stop. No, he wouldn’t even cast a glance at a single one of the corpses, no one could ever persuade him to look at dead men, or poke at them—even if they smelled of brännvin ever so much. He and Robert shook hands on this.
They were a little disappointed not to have reached the farther end of the street, not to have seen where Broadway ran—either to the portals of Heaven or Hell. But now they trailed dejectedly and cautiously back to its beginning, where they had started out, near the green grove, the manor park. They went back to join their families, both of them anxious to tell the others about their walk on the most beautiful street in the world, where they had almost been robbed of the only thing they owned—their lives.
Arvid soon consoled himself, and his happiness returned as he stuck his hand into his trousers pocket and felt his watch still there.
VI
JOURNEY WITH THE STEAM WAGON
Contract for Transportation of Immigrants
The undersigned agrees to carry the immigrants, who have arrived on the Swedish brig Charlotta of Karlshamn, from New York to Chicago, on the following conditions:
1. From New York to Albany by steamer, from Albany to Buffalo by steam wagon, and from Buffalo to Chicago by steamer.
2. For every adult person the fare is 8 dollars, children under 3 years free, children between 3 years and 12 years half fare.
3. The same fare entitles the traveler to 100 lbs. baggage free, and 150 lbs. on the steam wagon.
4. The baggage of the passengers is transferred free of charge from the vessel in New York to the steamer, and likewise in Albany and Buffalo, the whole way through to Chicago.
New York, June 26, 1850
—1—
The immigrants traveled up the Hudson from New York to Albany on one of the largest stea
mboats plying the river, the Isaac Newton.
The steamer left New York at eight in the evening, loaded to capacity with passengers and baggage. The immigrants were crowded together on the lower deck, while their belongings were piled almost as high as the smokestacks of the steamer on the upper deck toward the bow.
This was a night without rest for the travelers; there were no sleeping accommodations, and the immigrants sat or stood on deck, so closely packed together that no one could lie down. Parents held their children in their arms, older children and grownups stood upright. When they were tired, they tried to find rest by leaning on each other. Fortunately, they were to travel on this boat for only one night.
And this night they might have been able to sleep without concern for their lives if only there had been room to stretch out; this was not a dangerous voyage over a heaving ocean, violently pitching and rolling; this was a steady, easy passage on a calm, protected river. The Hudson stretched serenely before them, dotted with islands and inlets, following its furrow in quiet power. Through the night, mist towered over the high, steep shores. They were like secret dark fortress walls or silent sentinels, which guarded their water passage on either side. The journey on this water, where they could see land on the right and on the left, was to these ocean travelers almost the same as a trip on solid ground.
The Isaac Newton was driven forward by its great stern wheel, which dug deep into the river, stirring up whirls of foam; the wheel twirled the water like a giant egg whisk. The Hudson’s even current slowed the progress of the heavily laden, deep-lying vessel. The stern wheel cut a deep furrow through the white foam, a wheel track in the water, evened out, obliterated, and gone as soon as its wake had passed. Behind the vessel the river flowed as before, calm, slow, even, majestic, on its way to the Atlantic.
One hour after daybreak the Isaac Newton tied up at the pier in Albany. Tired, limp, worn-out by lack of sleep, the immigrants left the boat and were divided into groups by their guides and interpreters, who marched with them on a road along the river to the railway station. They were shown into a large hall in the station house, and here the different groups—the English, the Irish, the Germans, the Swedes—were told by their respective guides in their own languages to remain absolutely still; no one was allowed to move from his indicated place. They were not told why they must stand so still, but gradually they learned: two American inspectors went about among them, pointing their fingers at each one, counting them. The men came back, pointed and mumbled once more, and again the immigrants were told by their guides to remain absolutely still; a few had moved and confused the inspectors in their counting.
Unto A Good Land Page 9
